


The Welcome Mat Is Out, But Not For You

by Fidelios_cabinet



Series: A Haus can be a home [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Epikegsters past, Gen, Haus Patrol, RPF More or less, SMH pre-Bittle, Safe Spaces, let Chads be Chads...someplace else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 03:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10234691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fidelios_cabinet/pseuds/Fidelios_cabinet
Summary: "Do we have any wild horses"? Ransom asked."No," said Shitty, "and if we did it would be cruelty to dumb animals."So, if Jack Zimmermann graduated from Samwell in May 2015, he most likely started there in the fall of 2011. You know who was cruising Boston-area college parties about that time, looking for young women foolish enough to jump his bones when presented with a seriously lame pick-up line? Tyler Seguin, that’s who.So did he show up at an early Epikegster? And if he did, what happened?





	

Early December 2011

Jack had let Shitty drag him to the party at the Haus against his better judgment; even though at the first one they went to no one had done more than hand him a cup of orange soda (left over, apparently, from the preparation of the mystery punch in the plastic trashcan in the kitchen) and put him on door duty when he declined a beer, the presence of that many people and that much noise was enough to make his skin crawl. Really, he would be better off getting his notes together for finals.

But Shitty was, as always, strangely persuasive, and here they were, Shitty engaged in an intense debate about Seneca Falls while Jack hovered next to him and scanned the room for potential trouble. 

Dave Cohen had told him at his first Haus party “It’s simple; we try to stay fairly sober so our guests can have a good time. And than includes watching out for fights and especially for creepers and Chads.”

“Creepers and Chads?” Jack had asked him, not sure what that particular idiom meant.

“Guys who get creepy around girls, and guys who won’t take anything short of a stick to the head as a no.”

That had, unfortunately, made sense.

“Girls are an important part of good parties,” Dave had said. “A party without girls is just a bunch of guys getting wasted, and sorry, no thanks. So keep an eye out, and if you see anything that needs stopping, step in. Remember, we look after them like our sisters: given them credit for some sense, but be ready to step up if they want help.”

Jack managed not to say he didn’t have any sisters, because he knew that wasn’t Dave’s point. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. And he didn’t mind; it gave him something to do at parties, and the girls seemed to appreciate knowing that he and the other guys on the team would stand up for them.

One of the players on the women’s hockey team told him that alone made parties at the Haus worth going to, even without Bergin’s talents as a DJ or the quality of the ancestral tub juice recipe. “It’s so rare,” she told him “to go somewhere and know that if a guy won’t take no someone will step up--a whole bunch of someones.” 

Jack wasn’t quite sure how to tell her that made him feel both gratified and very sad, so instead he told her “I hope you’ll let us know if there’s something we miss; it’s easier for us to have your backs if you help,” and she had smiled and promised to spread the word.

The first time he had stepped in, it was to rescue a girl he vaguely remembered from his World History class; he thought they were in the same reading group, but she was the sort of girl who sort of quietly faded into things; he had a clearer recollection of her tortoiseshell glasses than he did of her face. At this point, she was trying to fade into the wall to escape from a guy whose hands seemed to have a magnetic attraction to her upper arms and adjacent areas, and when Jack came up and said “Hey! Have you had much luck with the readings on the Scholastics?” she gasped audibly and turned to him with a look of grateful terror.

“I was talking to her,” the creeper told Jack, and he saw at once the point of Dave’s label, since the guy practically oozed over to put his hand on the girl’s shoulder and tried to turn her back to face him.

“You were,” said Jack, “and now I am, because we’re in a class together. Need a fresh drink?’ he asked the girl. “Let’s head to the kitchen,” and he led her off, telling Carter Marsh as he passed him “That guy needs to not be here.”

Tonight a tallish guy with brown hair, who seemed vaguely familiar from the back, although Jack wasn’t sure where he’d seen him at Samwell, had managed to pin Camilla Collins into a corner. Jack told himself not to be too gratified by the way the guy jumped or the way Camilla smiled when he eased up to them and said “Everything OK here?”

“Chad here needs to be gone now,” she hissed at him as she slid under the arm that had been planted on the wall just above her shoulder. “I pried him off May, but now I can’t get rid of him.”

“Well,” said Jack, “I guess that means it’s time for you to go, Chad.”

“My name’s not Chad,” was the answer, “it’s--”

“Chad is pretty much a title by now,” Jack said. “There’s probably some history there, but I don’t suppose you care much about urban folk culture. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re leaving now.”

“I just got here! And this is an outstanding party and I haven’t scored. Come on. Be a bro, here.”

“I am being a bro. I’m just her bro, not yours.” Jack wondered if he’d ever dare tell his father about this. He supposed there was a chance he'd be recognized, but he realized he didn't care. Standing up for the Haus and his friends was worth a little temporary embarrassment. 

“Do I know you?” The newly crowned Chad peered at him.

“I know you,” Jack told him, “and you need to leave, because we have a firm policy here: annoy the women, and hit the road.” He was rather proud of that; coming up with pithy sayings off the cuff was not one of his skills.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Jack dropped his shoulder into the waiting midriff, ignoring the temptation of the outthrust chin. His target, who had already established an on-ice reputation for avoiding physical contact if at all possible, folded up, and when Jack straightened up, he was still startled enough not to fight his way out of the fireman’s carry Jack had him in.

Shitty appeared beside him then, along with Johnson. “Tossing a tosser? Need a hand?”

“An open door, please.”

Johnson moved off to the front door of the Haus, and Shitty began to clear a path for Jack by yelling “Coming through! Stand aside, folks; a Chad ejection will be taking place in five--four--three--two--one second!” and by that time they were through the door and on the porch.

Jack set the nearly-departed back on his feet. “You can’t throw me out,” he told Jack, “I’m--”

“Leaving now,” said Shitty, reaching down to grab his ankles, “You’re leaving now, and we’re so sad; sad you came, but glad to see you go. Someone get his hands.” Jack did so, and they started to swing him back and forth, while Camilla and several of her friends cheered. They didn’t get as much distance on the toss as Jack had hoped for, but he supposed asking for a mulligan was a bit much.

“Is he moving?” Shitty asked.

“Yes,” said Johnson, “but I don’t think he’s an any shape to drive.” He jumped down from the porch in time to catch their deporticated visitor as he tried to stand up and fell over. “Where are you parked, Chad?” He frisked him for keys and led him off down the sidewalk. “I’ll take the train back; I’ll call from the station.”

“Jack can drive my car,” Shitty said, "and follow you there and give you a ride back.”

“Excellent,” said Johnson. “After all, he’s done yeoman work this evening establishing his character arc,” which made as much sense as anything else Johnson ever said. Jack took the keys Shitty handed him and went to get the car.

 

January 2013

Ransom had been tracking the guy for the last half an hour. Between the two of them, he and Shitty must have covered every institution of higher learning in the greater Boston area, and all the way west to the Five Colleges and south to Brown and RISD. So there were a lot of people none of them knew here, and he and Holster had made up their minds to be extra careful about watching for Chads and Chadlike miscreants. It wasn’t just for the dibs; the Haus had a reputation for parties where girls felt safe, and that was a tradition he was happy to uphold.

The visiting Chad had hit on several girls--and been bounced by all of them--and now the women--always an essential feature of a really good kegster, as far as Ransom was concerned--were starting to edge away into other parts of the Haus and to clump together defensively. In the meantime, their utterly Chaddish guest was now starting to make a move on Lardo. None of the other women had seemed to need D-man interference; they’d all been able to brush the guy off on their own. Hell, Lardo could probably manage on her own, as well, but the team rules were simple: We have each other’s backs. If nothing else, a pass at Lardo would allow him to expel their visitor before his Chaditude led to a mass exodus of the women present.

As he eased up on Lardo and the interloper, he was pleased to see Holster moving in as well. He didn’t doubt that he could handle this particular Chadlet alone, but Holster’s voice was enough to reduce most Chads to abject terror, and Ransom found that he was looking forward to seeing this one so lowered.

They got there at the same time, just as the visitor said to Lardo, without much preamble (Ransom deducted even more style points; even a baby Chad should know better) “Wanna fuck?”

“No.” Lardo gave him a look that could have replaced the Zamboni, if it ever broke down mid-game.

“But I’m--”

“Not welcome here any longer!” Holster said, in tones loud enough to carry over the music. “And since you’re not welcome here any more, you’re leaving.” There was some cheering, Ransom noted, as Holster stooped and put his shoulder into the backs of the agitated Chadnik’s thighs and then straightened up. Their soon-to-be former visitor managed, in a really impressive display of core strength, to pull himself into a sitting position on top of Holster’s shoulders. This was a mistake, as he promptly hit his head on the old art glass light fixture hanging from the ceiling.

“Coming through!” Ransom said, stepping in front of Holster as he began to walk towards the front door. The Epikegster crowd did not exactly part like the Red Sea before Moses and the Israelites--the Haus was too crowded for that--but a path towards the door did manifest itself.

Fuck me, I’m Chad continued to struggle in Holster’s grip, until the D-man, in a display of strength that left a lot of watchers breathless (including Ransom, if he was honest about it) managed to roll him over so he hung belly down over Holster’s shoulder; when he turned his head to complain, Holster fastened his left hand around his throat and squeezed just a little. Ransom collected himself enough to grab the flailing arms and said, “Any last words?”

Dave Cohen was already at the door when they got there. “Good work, Frogs! May I just point out that there’s a divot in the plough berm on the left, where we were harvesting for snowballs? If you’re going to toss an unruly drunk out of the Haus, a little snow bath can only help him get his wits together before he goes home.”

Holster grunted in understanding as they stepped out onto the porch. “Got his arms, Rans? I’ll get his feet.” This took more effort than Ransom would have expected; in addition to his impressive core strength, this Chad-unit apparently also had enough leg strength to play a serious sport like hockey. They looked at each other across their victim’s dorsum and Holster nodded.

“On three, then?” Ransom asked.

“Wait, wait!” It was Shitty. “A tossing-out? So early in the evening?”

“He was annoying the women,” Ransom told him. “And then he hit on Lardo.”

Dave put in, “If you’ve got any better ideas, Knight…”

“I guess it would be cruel and unusual to let him be torn apart by wild horses.”

“Do we have any wild horses?” Ransom asked.

“No,” said Shitty, “and if we did it would be cruelty to dumb animals.”

“Fine,” said Holster, who was managing to keep his grip only by means of his more than human strength. “We’ll de-Chad the Haus by traditional methods.”

“They are tried and true,” Dave agreed. “Hey, wait! Shitty, isn’t this guy the schmendrick you and Jack tossed out last year?”

Shitty squatted down, barefoot and in an unzipped hoodie and a pair of plaid boxers, and peered at the face of the suspended intruder. “Why, I do believe it is. Toss proudly, gentlemen; all Boston thanks you, and not only Brompton but all Ontario hangs its head in shame.” Which made, Ransom reflected, about as much sense as anything else Shitty said when he was stoned.

He and Holster, with Dave counting off, swung their unwanted Chad three times and then tossed him into the remains of the snowman the LAX bros had destroyed the day before. Before he could stand up, Dave led them and some others out into the yard, and he was hoisted up again, dropped onto the plough berm, bathed liberally with snow, then tipped into the street.

“We told you before,” Shitty said “you’re not welcome here. There are limits to the bonds of hockey brotherhood, and you have stretched them past the breaking point. Go now, and trouble us no more!” He turned and stomped barefoot through the snow and back onto the porch.

Ransom followed, torn between amusement at Shitty’s flair for dramatic rhetoric and curiousity over his remarks. Jack was waiting on the porch as he and Holster climbed the steps. “Remember last year?” Shitty asked him. “He came back, chickenshit little pustule that he is.”

Jack shook his head. “Maybe he won’t try and make us prove that three times is the charm.” Lardo drifted out from behind him and glared down the sidewalk.

Shitty turned and shook first Holster’s hand and then Ransom’s. “Congratulations, gentlemen. You have just expelled a Stanley Cup loser from the Haus; you are now a part of our honored lore.”

Dave snorted. “I wonder how long it’ll be before the Bruins give up and trade him. The season’s just started; he doesn’t need to be creeping parties on college campuses if he wants another try at the Cup.”

“Wait,” said Holster. “That guy’s in the NHL? No wonder he was so strong. I thought he was a stray Chad who just wandered in from BU or something.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “He dropped in last year, and we had to drop him out again pretty quickly. Johnson ended up driving him back to Boston, since he was in no shape to manage it himself.” He didn’t expand further on their ex-visitor, but Shitty’s references to Brompton were beginning to make sense to Ransom.

“My mother would kill me,” he said to Holster, who nodded.

“Yours and mine both,” said Holster, for whom the pieces had apparently also clicked into place. “It’s not as if he single-handedly lost the Cup to the Aces, but that whole celebrate before you win approach of his didn’t help matters. You’d think, after the lockout, he’d have sense enough to stick to business instead of searching for parties.”

They followed Jack and the others inside, where they were greeted by cheering women. Lardo nudged Ransom in the ribs. “Pretty good,” she said. “Wanna play a round of pong?”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, that was unkind of me, but if expulsion from an imaginary party in an imaginary house by a bunch of imaginary college hockey players is the worst thing to happen fictionally to this guy, I'll be amazed. 
> 
> Technically, the Boston Bruins won the Stanley Cup in 2011, but it amuses me to take that win away and give it to the Aces, in Kent’s second year in the NHL. 
> 
> Tyler Seguin's career, including his time in Boston with the Bruins, is recorded in Wikipedia, and more can be obtained through Google. A great scorer, he is not known as a physical player, which is one of the reasons Boston traded him to Dallas. He was a rookie at the time of the 2011 Stanley Cup finals, and all of 19 years old. Unlike other young players such as Sidney Crosby and Jonathan Toews, a strong sense of personal responsibility does not seem to have been a primary characteristic of his early years in the NHL. To say the least. 
> 
> Defenestration/defenestration refers to throwing someone out a window. Therefore, deportication/deporticated means throwing someone off a porch. Hey, I made up the word, I get to define it.


End file.
